The Misconceptions of a Sheltered Heart
by Meohy
Summary: Near submits himself to emotions just once, but Mello destroys any semblance of his sentiment. A raw look at the complexities of Mello and Near's relationship if they were to love. Rated M for strong language/a slightly sensitive scene.
1. Chapter 1

_NEAR POV:_

There's a bang on the door and I'm not expecting it. It explodes through the stillness of my room. I'm seldom visited because there's simply no need to visit me. I'd be surprised if I couldn't deduce who it was. But I can. All to well.

It's Mello.

I glance up from my puzzle when the brass doorknob hits the wall, and, as I estimated, a certain leather-clad blonde slouches sloppily in the doorway. And I know why he's here as my eyes rake over his expression. His cobalt eyes are dull and bleary, and his thin lips are tilted down in an indignant frown. He's gotten into another fight with Matt—tried to drink his hurt/angry feelings away. When that didn't work, he winds up at my door, expecting to be relieved of that stress by taking advantage of me.

This has happened before. Many times (thirty-four to be exact). He won't kiss me or saying anything that might imply any motive other than the relief he'll get, just cuts straight to the chase. In the blink of an eye, my clothes are torn off and I'm shoved onto a convenient surface. I don't resist—it isn't rape. He isn't forcing himself on me because I'm not trying to repel him off of me. I have no emotional reaction to this. My arms lay limply at my sides as he ravishes my body.

When it's over, he promptly passes out and I'm left to lie awake and think about what's happened. It's not like I'm powerless to stop it, there are plenty of ways to resist. But I won't. Maybe I'm conflicted, since I'm unsure of the reasoning behind that statement. Confliction is an emotional response, and I expel it. I return to my puzzle with no feeling, no attachment, no concern. What's done is done.

The night wares on. With little of pressing importance to do at this time, I watch Mello sleep from my perch on a seat close to the couch. He's lying on his stomach, at an angle that looks as if he's at danger of tumbling off. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes are clamped shut. He's got an arm dangling over the side, fingers pressed into the carpet. Compared to resentful expression he displayed in my doorway, now he looks…peaceful.

If you think these encounters between us are peace treaties, you couldn't be more wrong. We're still rivals, or so Mello thinks. I let him believe want he wants, as it really isn't for me to say, though I can tell you I don't agree. We get along—as he hasn't killed me or I haven't ordered his death—but that doesn't mean that I don't make his life challenging. Puzzles that are too easily solvable aren't entertaining for long. I'm uncertain if I will ever truly understand what's going through his mind. Though I assume most of it is false logic and hasty, unlawful solutions.

Mello stirs by the time half of the day has gone by. One cobalt eye opens before the other; he blinks, and looks around, yawning. He sniffs, rises to a sitting position, coughs and stretches.

I'm still watching him from my chair, but it isn't as obvious since now I've got cards to make a card tower. He doesn't acknowledge me.

He sits there silently for 7 minutes and 43 seconds. Some fog clears from his bleary, tired eyes and he finally looks in my direction. As my way of acknowledging him, my slate eyes meet his for 79 milliseconds, then I shift my gaze back to my card tower.

He disappears in my bathroom for 8 minutes, then emerges, ready to raid my kitchen. I don't retain him, knowing that he won't find what he's looking for. It isn't long before he barks, "I can't believe I drive all the fucking way out here and you haven't got any fucking chocolate! Talk about a damn shame!"

He says this because he perpetually forgets that I'm one to eat little, and I don't care for sweets. Especially his favorite. Does he think I look forward to and prepare for this visits? Why would I stock my cabinets with chocolate power for his milk? Go out of my way to purchase chocolate bars? Just for his satisfaction? What can be gained from that?

Nothing.

In 22 seconds, he reenters the living room so he can glower at me full-on.

I respond to him in a more significant manor. Peering at him evenly, I ask a question that I'd like to hear his answer to. "Why do you come here, then?"

This catches him off guard. His baffled expression is quickly replaced by one of dismissing indifference. "What's it to you?" He sniffs.

"Call it curiosity if you wish."

Condescending tone: "Since when the hell have _you_ been _curious_?"

"Why do you come here?" I repeat, keeping my voice even, just posing the question.

A shrug, as it mutters a curt, "Dunno." Then a smirk, "S'cheaper than a motel."

"..." I'm still piling cards high.

"What?"

"I expected a more thorough answer than that."

"I'll say it again: what's it to you?" He snorts, leaves for the kitchen, returns 57 seconds later with a bowl of cereal, then adds in a muttered afterthought, "Don't tell me you think I come here because I actually give a damn about you." His voice rises purposefully, so he knows I'm listening, "I'll say it straight up, right here and now, Near—I don't give two shits about you, and no one ever will. Obviously I come here for a fuckin' free place to crash so I don't have to feel so shitty about…" He pauses, a pained expression washing over his flippant, if not smug, features and I know he's thinking about Matt. "Whatever."

I know he'll say more, so I don't respond. As expected, he sighs and continues, "I mean, _seriously_, Near, 'you' and 'emotions' aren't something you'd find in the same sentence. You've got no feelings for me, and I sure as hell don't have any feelings for your sorry ass." He stands to walk back to the kitchen, where he refills his bowl of cereal.

"An interesting thought to propose, Mello. You say I don't have feelings for you, and I think I do."

He isn't fully paying attention. "Hmm? Have what?"

"I think I've developed feelings for you, Mello."

A disturbed quietness follows my latest statement. Mello stands completely still at the counter, his hand paused in mid-motion in its path to grasp the spoon he's using. After 7 seconds and 45 milliseconds, Mello finally turns to look at me. The smile his lips are turned up in is forced, and his bleary eyes are staring at me in dull fear, questioning insecurity. He manages a chuckle, "You're shitting me, aren't you?"

"No, though next time, would you refrain from using that vernacular to express your doubt?"

"Why? Does it annoy you?" He mocks.

"Mello…" I cut eye contact from him and focus on my card tower. "Can we not stray from the conversation we've started?"

He throws his head back and laughs. It isn't over until 45 seconds and 13 milliseconds later. Then, with an amused light lingering in his eyes, he says, "You said something earlier?"

"Yes, Mello, I told you of my feelings for you."

The hardened look he gives me resembles that of stone. "That's what I thought."

But I continue, "I don't see why I have to repeat myself, you heard me the first time. Tell me, Mello, are you in denial?"

"Are. You._ Serious_?" He challenges, settling back into the couch.

"Yes." I say, and he tenses. The cards from my tower come flittering down. My eyes don't leave Mello even as they cloud my view of him. "I'd like to know what love is. If there was anything I'd let myself feel, I wanted it to be love."

"GODDAMMIT!" In addition to the loud and foul exclamation, he's up on his feet, raging. His breakfast is cast in my direction repulsively, and my arms instinctively raise. The appliances on my counter are sent crashing to the floor, the piercing sound of metal scraping the ceramic tiles quiet against Mello's rage. "I thought coming here would mean not getting tangled up in emotions! What the _fuck_'s your deal, Near?" He shouts, practically roaring, "You pick RIGHT NOW to decide you've got feelings? And worse, of all times, you've fucking developed feelings for _me_!" He backs away from me, horrified and agitated at the same time. He rakes hands through his golden hair as he mutters, "Oh God, I'm so stupid! I'm so stupid!"

"It went unplanned…" I venture, face and voice an even mask of nothingness.

I'm cut off by my table clattering to the floor and the loud exclamation of: "Goddammit! That's the greatest fucking understatement of the entire fuckin' year!"

"My confession of an emotional attachment to you is an understatement?"

He pauses, setting down the chair he's holding. "Wait, wait…you _think_ you've got an attachment or you _feel _one?"

"Is there a difference?" I ask, voice devoid of sarcasm.

"God, yes!" He lets out an exasperated breath so he can slowly and deliberately utter each of his words, "Thinking and feeling is what separates us, Near, you and me. It makes our outlooks so extreme to each side of the scale. Metaphorically speaking, of course. See…you think and don't feel, I feel and don't think. With you telling me you're _feeling _something the whole goddamn scale isn't balanced anymore!"

I chose my words carefully. "I feel something when you're here, Mello. I'm unsure of what exactly it is, but I surmise loving you is the best answer."

"You _love_ me?" He's approaching me, his voice rising in volume, his features bent in fury, "You fucking _love _me?"

"Yes." My tone doesn't waver, isn't adamant. I simply say 'yes,' like I would if someone asked me if one centimeter cubed is the same as one milliliter.

"Oh, FUCK! Do you know what this means? _FUCK!_ Do you know what this means?"

"You don't need to repeat yourself. Yes, I know what you mean."

"Shut up, Near, don't tell me what I can't do!" His icy cobalt eyes narrow as he points an accusing finger at me. "I don't think you know how big this is! I don't think you know what this means! No. I. DON'T!"

"Don't what?"

He lets out an exasperated breath, his agitated features softening slightly. "I don't know anything anymore…everything is just so _fucked up_…"

"Don't be so overdramatic, Mello," I say calmly. "How can you possibly not know anything?"

At my latest inquiry, he's riled angry again. "QUIT CONDESENDING ME!"

"An apology would be pointless, ill-deserved, and insincere. Would you like one?"

"NO! I don't want anything to do with you anymore!"

"Does this mean you're rejecting me?"

"YES!"

"…"

"Whatever we were, it's over. You're time as my fuckin' rag doll or whatever, DONE. It's done, DO YOU HEAR ME? WE'RE _FINISHED_! I DO _NOT_ REQUIRE YOUR FUCKIN' CHEAP SERVICES ANYMORE!"

The impact of the door being slammed shut explodes through the stillness of my room. I start rebuilding my card tower, as if none of this happened. But my hands are shaking, so I stop, letting the cards come crumbling down again. I'm unsure of my why my hands are doing this. I sit still for a while, and like before, think about all that's happened.

Retrospectively, I come to the conclusion that my confession of love was a test. I got Mello to explain his reason for coming here, however brief and vague. I got Mello to admit he didn't feel anything by coming here. I even got him to admit Matt was the problem. My confession of love was unnecessary, unaccounted for, unimportant. How could I have uttered those words? How was it possible to lie like that? To myself, or to him?

Simple: I got Mello. I _got _him.

I knock the cards to the floor and don't bother cleaning them up. The sleek surface they create is pressed into my carpet as I trudge over the cards on my way to the kitchen.

_He'll be back_, I resolve. _He's all I got._

_But…_I pause in mid-step, eyes surveying the damage of Mello's tirade on my appliances. The impact of his destruction lingers here. _Does that mean I love him? Isn't that a feeling? _

It can't be. Like he said, no one will ever give two shits about me.

My hands still shaking, I collapse on the cool tiled floor. My arms lock around my knees as I try to lock down all the emotions swirling around inside of me, like a tornado threatening to steal everything I have learned to control and leave me with nothing. What I feel is devastating, overwhelming, revitalizing and I struggle to contain it.

I won't cry or throw a fit. I simply won't do anything. I'm completely still as I manage to make all feeling fade—it's swept away by rationality, resistance, restriction. I amount to hollowness, which is what I am accustomed to feeling.

Then I remember I'm curled into a ball in the midst of my messed up kitchen, my messed outlooks, my messed up life. And I think, for once, I level with Mello completely. No will ever love me, and I won't ever try to love again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Hey, loved ones. :D I'm sorry this took so freaking long to update! Honestly, I had no idea where this story was going to go but I woke up this morning with it mostly figured out (weird, huh?) I vow on Near's life to write the third chapter sooner than (what is it? a year and a half now?) this one xD If you're still reading this than you deserve a medal, a hug, and some homemade cookies! Thank you so much for reading :)

doneiloveyouadieu,

Meohy

* * *

_NEAR POV:_

An hour is spent rearranging everything that Mello destroyed, even if it useless. I find myself restless to place it back in order. As of this moment, I am bent on acquiring order. I cannot continue to dwell on chaotic thoughts—they must be expelled. Returning everything back to its original place will help me reorganize my thoughts, adjust them back to what is normal. As if normal for me can defined or achieved.

As I'm finishing, I can't help to notice that just about all material nothings are back in their rightful places, but something inside of me is still displaced. If it were tangible, it would be lost. But as it is not, I curl up on the edge of my carpet, collecting the cards I spilled earlier, wondering what could possibly be wrong.

It is 7:51 PM, six hours and thirty-eight minutes since the door slammed, since I was left in a shattering silence. The noise that Mello created continues on in a different form—incessant thoughts in my mind. It as if his commotion has infected me, and no matter how hard I try to dispel it, it does not leave me. I am able to make it go away for a while, but it returns. It has been six hours, thirty-eight minutes, fifty-seven seconds, forty-two milliseconds and the answer to the same question still eludes me: what is wrong with me?

Or, perhaps, I should answer the more pressing question: what is love?

I defined what I felt for Mello as love because I couldn't put a word to the _something_ that I was feeling. I tried to describe what I was feeling with other feelings, but none of them seemed to fit. Love was the last thing, the only thing that I thought could be the answer to my indescribable feelings. This morning I told Mello that I loved him but he didn't return my sentiments. With retrospect, did I expect time to?

He claims to love Matt, but he still comes to me. How can he love someone that causes him so much pain? Mello only comes when he and Matt have had a fight. The more violently he acts towards me, the worst the fight between them is. And when he's done with me, he goes back to try to repair the damage between Matt and him. How can something infuriate him so much that he terrorizes someone else in order to alleviate the hurt his loved one causes him? How can he return to said loved one after everything? Does he want to recapture the love he claims to feel towards this other person?

I don't understand love. Yet there's a part of me that wants to feel it.

When the apartment is clean, I turn on everything that can make a noise. The television, the radio, the dishwasher, the vacuum, the blender, all electronic gaming devices. Anything, everything I can find. I don't want it to be so quiet.

Then I move to turning on all the lights in the apartment. Wherever there is an empty socket on the wall, I find a light to plug in and turn it on. I can't be the dark. I have to be able to see everything. I don't want to be so alone.

I don't want to be so scared of Mello right now. But his presence still lingers here. I want to get rid of him. I want to get rid of my feelings. He lives as a constant reminder that, for me, having feelings is dangerous.

With all the noises and all the lights on, I find myself sitting underneath my kitchen table. My arms are loosely folded around my knees. The chairs around me act as a barrier. Forcing myself to hear the noise and see the bright lights remind me that I'm alive. I can't hear myself thinking and I can't feel myself breathing. But I'm alive.

I start to rock. Slowly, back and forth. I don't know how long I sit there under the table.

Not until I am opening my eyes, picking my head up off the floor do I realize that I had fallen asleep. I kick one of the chairs out so I can crawl out. The blender and dishwasher have stopped working, so I turn off all other appliances. Then I move to the lights. Turning them all off, I notice that morning light streams through my windows.

Though my head isn't swimming with thoughts about love, my feelings, and my feelings about love, I leave the TV on. It plays quietly from the living room as I move to turn off the lights in my bed room. I'm not sure if I'll watch it, but I want to hear something even if it's in the background. My ears start ringing when it's too quiet.

When I reenter the living room, I am considering another shower. But judging from the fact that I've showered twice and scrubbed my hands thoroughly six times since Mello left, I reject the notion. But I did fall asleep under the table…And although I swept and scrubbed the entirety of the kitchen floor three times yesterday, I settle on changing my pajamas. Maybe I should clean the floor again, or at least scrub the spot I laid on…

I'm closing my dresser drawer, about to get the cleaning supplies from the bathroom for the kitchen floor when I hear a knock on the door.

I freeze.

I know what that knock means.

I don't make a move to answer it.

"Near…" I hear Mello call. His voice is much more calm than yesterday, which only intensifies my wondering why he is here. "Near, open the door. I know you're in there."

I can't.

But…by not opening the door, he'll know how scared of him I am. And not him, technically, since he represents the feelings I've tried to avoid all my life.

I take a deep breath. I move slowly to the door, taking one step at a time.

He keeps knocking. With every rap on the door, I feel a sting in my chest.

I can do this. I have to.

I pull the door open. "Mello," I say. "I was not expecting you."

He's showered, more alert and more composed than yesterday. But there are black rings under his eyes that are unmistakable. His expression is solemn. He doesn't barge into my apartment like last time. His presence doesn't seem as imposing as last time, but that is not a comfort to me.

"Make yourself some coffee, if you want." I motion to kitchen.

"Near, don't do that." Mello follows me into the apartment. "Don't pretend like nothing happened. You know I've been thinking about what happened yesterday as much as you have." He walks to the kitchen table and sits. He motions for me to sit across from him.

I keep still and address him from my position in the doorway. "I don't know what you're doing here. But you seem in significantly better spirits than last I saw you." The table sits between us. He folds his hands. My eyes meet his for the first time since he's entered my apartment.

"I couldn't sleep last night," he tells me. "I haven't touched any food. I don't remember much of what happened when I was here, but something's stuck in my head since I left. It's been torturing me, so I thought I'd go back to the source. I need to settle this before it gets out of hand."

"Your intentions are noble, if not purely self-serving," I concede. "But there's nothing to settle."

"So that's what you think now?" His eyes harden. Any semblance of reasoning with me has suddenly vanished. He is short-tempered, after all. "That telling me you _loved_ me was nothing? I know you better than that. You plan out things _meticulously. _You wouldn't've said that unless it was part of some sick master plan of yours."

I hold his piercing gaze. "I don't have any plans."

He pauses. "I wanted to congratulate you," he tells me finally, a sarcastic edge to his voice. "You really messed with me this time. Your part was well-played, I've got to give you that."

I turn away from him. Leave the kitchen to go to living room. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't pull that shit on me." He gets from the table. "I know exactly what you're doing." He takes a couple steps towards me. "I've got to say, I underestimated you. You were pretty convincing yesterday. Though using reverse-psychology is a little unoriginal, don't you think?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I repeat. I lower myself to the ground, my knees touch the carpet, and my hands find the pieces from my unfinished chess game. I start clearing them off of the board.

Mello takes a seat on the couch across from me. This time the coffee table sits between us. "Come on, yesterday you told me you _loved_ me. You wanted to shake me." He takes the black pieces from my chess set. "You wanted me to start thinking that coming here was a mistake. You don't want me here because I force you to have feelings." He starts arranging the pieces in their respective places. "You thought you could scare me because you know I don't feel anything towards you but you also know I wouldn't want to encourage any feelings that you have towards me. Especially if they are _love._"

"I'm not trying to play games with you, Mello." I stare into his icy eyes. I don't touch the white game pieces. "I never have. Over the years, you've convinced yourself that I'm trying to work against you, but that's never been my intention. I never wanted to winanything over you. It just happened. You've never been able to accept that I'm naturally more gifted than you."

His eyes go far away. "But Near, you're not. Not anymore. You feel, Near. Even if it's _love _or hate or disgust or longing. You feel."

I stare at him wordlessly.

"All our lives," he continues, "you've know exactly what to do or say to get under my skin. You've yanked me around on an emotional chain. Because making me lose my temper or feel exhausted from working too hard or feel inferior intellectually and then feel sorry for myself—that's been the only way you could beat me. Yeah, we're both smart on paper." His teeth gritted. "And yeah, _technically_ you are smarter than me. But you saw that when emotions get to me, I can make impulsive decisions. And these have proved to hurt me in the past. For the longest time, that's made me weaker than you. But we both know in every other way, I'm your equal. But I'm come to realize something." A sinister smile played on his lips. "Emotions always used to separate us. But that's it, they _used_ to. Before yesterday, you thought by hiding your emotions, you were better than me. Look at you now."

His eyes flick down for a moment. "You're hands haven't stopped shaking since I came in. Near…"

"The person that's been working against all of your life, it's not me. It's you, Mello," I tell him. "It's you."

His raises an eyebrow. "And what about you? We're the same, Near. We both live to be the embodiment of each other's weaknesses. A constant reminder of what we're not and what we could never be. For me, devoting my life to only improving my intellectual brilliance would kill me _because_ I'm so emotional. These feelings of inferiority, hard-working nature, impulsiveness, and short-temper prevent me from having a natural talent in intelligence. And emotions, well, they paralyze you because you _only _have intelligence to live for. You can only make rational decisions. And you know irrationality goes hand and hand with feeling."

Everything he is saying to me borders on being paradoxical. It makes no sense to me. The fact that I don't understand is exactly _why_ it makes perfect sense. I'm not supposed to understand.

"That's exactly what we are: opposites." He stands to leave. The black chess pieces still stand of their side of the board. "It's dangerous for you to be too emotional. And right now, you're confused. I think I've barely touched the surface of your emotions."

I want to shake my head and fiercely deny his words. But I can't. I can't give in. I can't show him that he's right. The worst part, though, is that he already knows he is. He's hurt me in the only way he could. He made me feel.

"Hey," he says softly. "I got _you_."

I stop breathing.

"And Near…" He stops at the door. Turns to face me. I summon enough courage to look him in the eye as he says, "You'll never feel love." The smirk on his lips forms slowly. "And I feel sorry for you."

He turns to go.

"Mello…" I say, raising my voice. I hear him stop a few steps out in the hallway. "You've been cheating on him for years."

He seems unfazed as he answers my accusation with a question, "Are you really worried about that?"

"How can you live with yourself?" I find myself asking.

His chuckle is low, quiet, cruel. "You have no idea what love is."

He leaves. I'm swallowed by silence again. My ears start ringing, but I don't make a move to change that.

_You'll never feel love._ _You'll never feel love. You'll never feel love. _Mello isn't the first to tell me this. I've heard it before.

I look down at my hands. I ball them into fists, squeezing until the bones of my knuckles go deathly pale.

Something in me is breaking. I can feel it.


End file.
